


a wolf at the door

by kingtear



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Artist Arthur Morgan, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Tension, street fighter!Charles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:54:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24947206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingtear/pseuds/kingtear
Summary: Charles is a down-on-his-luck street fighter in Saint Denis. Arthur is a painter, of sorts.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 15
Kudos: 146





	a wolf at the door

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [the future will take care of itself](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24652831) by [adjourn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adjourn/pseuds/adjourn). 



> took some elements of Arthur's artist career from there.
> 
> i have a whole plot outlined for this but sort of lost interest, so i just turned it into a smutty one-shot. maybe i will revisit this AU at a later date?
> 
> hope you enjoy!

Blood in his mouth, painting his teeth. Blood dripping from the cut on his cheekbone, trickling down his neck, makes him  _ shiver _ . Blood on the ground, spatters like art — blood of his enemy, blood in his veins, pounding.  _ Lose. Lose.  _

Blood as he falls, shaking with repressed fury.

“And we have our victor, folks: The Meat Mincer!” The audience erupts into a cacophony of gleeful yowls, drowning out the jeers. Men swarm the bookie to collect while others storm off. The victor himself is led away by a cluster of cheering men, patting him on the back and hollering about girls and whiskey for tonight.

_ Stay down. Lose. _

The makeshift arena empties until naught is left but an old backyard overgrown with weeds. The rage clears, his heart slows. The blood stops pumping, and Charles picks himself up off the dirt. 

“Good work,” says the bookie, with a tobacco-blackened grin. He slaps a wad of cash in Charles’ hand and winks. “Real underdog victory tonight. Let me know if you wanna repeat it sometime. The Lone Wolf is still a crowd favorite.” 

Charles takes the money and spits a mouthful of reddened saliva to the side. “We’ll see,” he says. He slips on his shirt, bothering with only half the buttons, and leaves.

Behind him, the bookie hums as he counts the rest of his earnings. A jocular tune, popular with the Saint Denis street performers. The music follows Charles out of the yard and through the alley, past the rusted gate and into the trash-laden streets that cough up dust with each step. It’s still playing in Charles’ head when he catches the eye of a man leaning against the fighthouse wall. Broad back and a mean jaw, with a scruffy beard and jagged scars to match. Ragged black hat, browning from time in the sun, and notably, three different weapons strapped to his person. He tilts his head up and flicks his cigarette away. Smoke curls from his lips as he speaks: “You coulda taken him.”

Charles squares his shoulders, ready for trouble.

The man pushes himself off the wall and steps toward Charles. “I put a lotta money on you.”

There’s always one or two guys like this after matches, fair or fixed. Angry that the world didn’t play out the way they wanted, itching for violence. Charles has long learned that it usually isn’t the outcome of the fight that really bothers them, but rather the scraping failure of their own life.

“You made a bad bet, then.” Charles assesses; the man is big, but not nearly as big as Charles. Not many men are. He has a look about him, though, that Charles usually only sees in the ring, where men rip open the part of them that’s ready to kill, that  _ wants  _ to kill. Maybe Charles could take him. He hopes he doesn’t have to. He isn’t keen on getting thrown in jail for public brawling. Charles says, “Talk to the bookkeeper if you have a problem.”

“A bad bet,” repeats the man. “S’pose that I shoulda known the fight would be fixed, huh?”

Charles stares at him, blank-faced. 

“Well, that’s my loss,” the man relents. His frown smoothes out, the thuggish posturing vanishes in an instant. He smiles, just a small, lopsided quirk of his lips, surprisingly charming. “Didn’t really wait out here to bug ya ‘bout that. Honest.”

“Then what did you need?” 

The man holds out his hand. He says, “My name’s Arthur Callahan. Wanted to know if I can paint you.”

Charles cautiously shakes his hand. His palm is warm and dry, calloused. “You want to … paint me?”

“That’s right.” Arthur scratches his beard. It comes across oddly self-conscious. “I know I don’t look it, but I’m an artist,” the word is awkward, like he himself doesn’t really believe it, “and I wanted to paint you for this gallery thing I got comin’ up. I could pay,” he adds. When Charles’ skepticism does not falter, he digs through his satchel and hands him a pamphlet.

_ NEW ARTIST SPOTLIGHTS at THE GALLERIE LAURENT coming the month of AUGUST. Featuring up-and-coming realist painter, Mister Arthur Callahan... _

“How much are you paying?” Charles asks. 

“Dollar an hour.” Arthur shrugs when Charles lifts a brow. “It ain’t a hard job. Just sittin’ in my studio looking…” He stops himself from saying whatever adjective he had in mind. 

Charles considers it. It’s possible that “Arthur” is a human trafficker or a murderer or a rapist, or all three. It’s possible he’s white supremacist scum luring Charles in for an easy lynching. It’s possible that he really is just a strangely muscular, rugged artist, with a scowl that could send lesser men running for the hills. 

“Make it a dollar-fifty,” says Charles. He hopes he doesn’t regret this. 

Arthur brightens, his eyes light as a summer sky. “Deal. You free now?”

.

.

.

Arthur leads him to an apartment building on the cusp of the city’s slums and the middle class residential district, not too far from the fighthouse. One block west, and the roads become paved, the walls brick. One block east, and it’s back to rotting wood and roaches. Arthur’s building toes the line between show and shit, half-brick and half-wood, hastily cobbled together. They climb a flight of hazardously fractured steps; when Charles trails his hand along the wall, powdery blue paint remnants stick to his fingers. 

Still, it doesn’t feel like a building one would murder someone in. There’s a crooked photo of a ranch hanging in the hallway, and a vase perched atop an end table. The sight of the white lily gives Charles some reassurance. 

“I’d be glad if you didn’t tell no one about this place,” Arthur says, stopping short of an apartment door. “Sorta a private studio.”

That’s less reassuring. Charles looks back at the lily, strong and healthy despite the heat. 

“Don’t have anyone to tell,” he says, which is far more honest than he intended.

Arthur nods. “Good.” He frowns to himself slightly, then walks two more rooms down, stopping in front of a faded white door. “This one here.”

He rustles a key from his pocket and jams it in the lock, struggling for a moment with the mechanism before he turns the doorknob. The knob itself jangles so much, Charles thinks for a second that Arthur might pull it clean off. But the door swings open with no structural damage committed, and they step into the apartment. It’s one large room that’s been fully converted into an art studio: old newspapers splotched with paint spread across the floor, blank and filled canvases stacked in seemingly random piles, paint tubes and brushes scattered about. There’s a bedroll assembled haphazardly in the northeast corner, and an open chest next to it. The sole speck of organization Charles can see is the three large easels that take up one wall each, carefully positioned so that they’re facing the center of the room. 

Arthur heads for the kitchenette, which contains the only real furniture in the room: a table and four mismatched chairs, one of which looks suspiciously similar to the iron patio chairs Charles has seen in the park down Fleance Street. The table is strewn with drawings, pens, and ink bottles. Arthur grabs a cushioned chair and brings it to the main area, positioning it by the window, diagonally to one of the easels.

“You can sit here for now,” he says. “Might ask ya to stand later or move around a bit, if that’s alright. I’ll make some coffee for us. We could be here a while.”

“Mm,” Charles intones agreeably, feeling much more relaxed at the plentiful physical evidence of Arthur’s alleged vocation. He takes a seat and stretches out his legs, and watches, somewhat involuntarily, Arthur hasten about the kitchen, unslinging his weapons and making coffee. The position of the chair is such that he’s facing Arthur almost exactly.

Arthur is brisk with the task, his hands moving automatically despite his distracted demeanor; his gaze wanders over to Charles, often. Not wary, but speculative. Thinking of how to paint him, Charles assumes.

The water gets put to boil and Arthur doesn’t say anything more, nor seem like he intends to. Charles digs a rag of his pocket to clean the blood from his face, though it doesn’t really bother him. He just likes having something to do with his hands.

“Wait,” Arthur interrupts as Charles is raising the rag to his cheek, “could you not do that? Not clean up, I mean. Leave the blood.”

Charles lowers the rag, stuff it back into his pocket. “Alright. Anything else you want?”

Arthur looks at him quizzically, though the expression would seem downright frightful without context. The natural downturn of his mouth, and the shadow cast over his eyes by the brim of his hat, casts his features in perpetual displeasure. It’s a shame, Charles thinks, given that he’s so handsome when he smiles.

“Is there anything else I should do, or know, for the painting?” Charles elaborates.

“Right.” Arthur rubs his beard and turns around to check on the percolator. “Yea. Don’t take this the wrong way, but could you take your shirt off?”

There’s a telling flush creeping up the back of Arthur’s neck. Charles dares to wonder.

“I can do that,” says Charles, pitching his voice a bit lower than usual. 

“Great,” Arthur says, stiffly. He doesn’t turn back until the coffee is ready, and the pink heat of his neck has subsided.

Charles waits until Arthur is coming back, mugs of coffee in hand, to stand and strip out of his shirt. He does it more slowly than usual, taking time on each button as the fabric parts to reveal more skin. He stretches his arms back, accentuating the striations in his shoulders, as he tugs the shirt off. Arthur has paused his stride and is openly staring now, his eyes drawn inexorably to the smear of crimson along Charles’ left pectoral. 

Charles drops his shirt on the floor and nudges it to the side. “Do I get any of that coffee?” he asks, casually. 

Arthur approaches with a distracted air about him, gaze still wandering up and down Charles’ torso. He only looks him in the eye when he hands Charles the mug. “Sorry. Just got...” He casts a glance down again, to Charles’ bloodied chest. This time, with something akin to reverence. He murmurs, “You’ll be a real sight to paint.” 

He purses his lips and retreats to the easel, absently setting his coffee down without taking a single sip.

“I’ll get started,” Arthur says, voice gravelly. 

Charles hides a flattered smile in the rim of his mug. He settles into his seat and watches Arthur work. Brow furrowed in concentration, forearms flexing in time with graceful brushstrokes. The lust in his eyes has been tempered by aesthetic wonderment. 

Charles lets himself relax. He finishes his drink and ends up turning his attention to the window, getting lost in the grainy view of the streetside. A mangry stray begging for scraps, finding a few from some primly-dressed girl, who darts out of her mother’s reach to feed it. Old men sitting on the curbside reading the paper, young men beside them nursing a bottle. Rickety wagons stacked high with goods. Stagecoaches lined with gold lettering.  _ PALMER CO. TRANSPORTATION  _ —  _ LUXURY COACHES & CARRIAGES.  _ Lawmen amble past in their ritzy blue coats. It’s all so distant. Peaceful. The evening passes, worlds away.

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until Arthur gently shakes him, his fingers pressed into the meat of Charles’ shoulder. Charles blinks sluggishly, his vision clearing up. It’s dark in the room, and darker still outside. 

“Mister Lone Wolf,” says Arthur, hushed, “would you like a smoke?”

Charles takes the proffered cigarette, nodding in thanks. “My name’s Charles Smith.” 

Arthur flicks a match. “Mr. Smith, then,” he says, bending to light Charles’ cigarette. Charles inhales and the tip comes aflame. He can see the orange ring reflected briefly in Arthur’s eyes, before Arthur straightens again. 

“Sorry for falling asleep,” says Charles. 

“S’alright,” Arthur says. He taps his cigarette against the cracked crystal ashtray he’s holding, which is most certainly stolen. “Got it done.” The canvas is angled completely toward the wall now, clearly a private matter. “Seems like you needed it, anyway, if you could fall asleep like that,” Arthur adds, with an amused quirk to his lips.

“A bit,” Charles agrees. In all honesty, it was the best rest he’s had in months, despite being half-upright in a chair and in some stranger’s apartment. Perhaps his instincts are dulling. “Can’t rest easily in the city.”

Arthur mutters, “Don’t I know it. Filthy place.” He shakes his head. “Don’t know why anyone lives here.”

“Don’t you live here?” asks Charles, with a bemused look at the scrunched-up bedroll in the corner.

“Oh. Yea, I s’pose I do. But it’s just for work. Great place for art, or something,” he says, unsurely.

“If you didn’t spend the whole afternoon painting me, I would be doubting you’re actually an artist right now.”

“Couldn’t blame you. I doubt it too,” says Arthur. He collects their cigarette butts in the ashtray, discards it on an end table by the easel. After a pause, he asks, “How ‘bout you? Why’re you in Saint Denis?”

It’s a long, convoluted story. Or a painfully simple one. Charles says, “I have nowhere else to be.”

For such a vague reply, Arthur seems to understand it. “And you fight ‘cause you got nothing else to do?”

“Mm.” That about sums it up, and Charles feels his gut twist. Nothing else to do but bloody his fists and break bones.

“I understand it. Hell, s’how I feel most of the time,” Arthur says ruefully.

“Is painting that terrible?”

Arthur frowns, though the expression doesn’t seem entirely directed at Charles. “Naw, but… Nevermind.” He sighs and rolls his neck, folds his arms across his chest.

Charles drinks in the sight of him, as much as he can. There’s no light source in the room without their cigarette embers. The moonlight, partially obscured by smog, provides only a dim, greying glow. Arthur is downright statuesque. A sight above any other man that Charles has been with before.

“Has anyone supposed it lucky to be born?” Arthur asks, suddenly, breaking the silence.

Charles inclines his head, puzzled. “What?”

“It’s from a. It’s from a poem. Maybe you’ve heard of the fella before. Whitman, or somethin’.” 

“I’m not really a poetry type.” Frankly, he didn’t think Arthur was one, either, but the man  _ is  _ a painter. Charles should perhaps stop making such assumptions.

“Forget it.” Arthur rubs a hand over his face. “Just some dumb quote. Doesn’t mean anything.”

Whitman. Why does that name sound familiar? Charles recalls fine sheets and cigar smoke, pale limbs and fingers on his ribcage.  _ It’s a code for people like us. Real ritzy, right?  _ Charles hadn’t thought much of it at the time. He wasn’t interested in codes and subtlety.

Thank god, though, that he remembers now. 

“I think it meant something,” Charles says. He meets Arthur’s eyes, deliberately looking up through his lashes.

“It… might have.” 

Arthur steps closer to him, movements slow and controlled. He stops just shy of Charles’ knees. Charles puts his hands on Arthur’s hips and rucks his shirt up a bit, sweeping his thumbs across the warm skin beneath. Arthur exhales shakily at the touch. 

“Come here,” Charles says, softly. Tightening his grip on Arthur’s hips, he guides Arthur to straddle him, knees resting on either side of Charles’ strong thighs. Then, closer, so that Arthur’s ass rests atop his groin. Arthur puts his hands on Charles’ bare shoulders for balance, and, haltingly, squeezes the muscles there like he can’t help himself.

“Is this what it meant? What you wanted?” Charles asks. He brings one hand to Arthur’s cheek, fingers cupping his strong jaw. 

“Yea,” Arthur says, voice low. “Think so.”

“You think?”

Arthur averts his eyes. “I’ve ain’t done this much before. With another fella.”

A primordial part of Charles rumbles with possessive delight. Charles wraps his arm around Arthur’s waist and draws him in, lets him balance all his weight on Charles, pressing their bodies together.

“That’s alright. I’ll take care of you,” Charles murmurs, and draws Arthur into a kiss. He tries to keep it chaste, but Arthur makes a muffled noise against his lips that makes Charles’ dick twitch. So Charles sucks at Arthur’s bottom lip, relishing the full-body shudder it elicits, then kisses him with fervor, open-mouthed. He keeps one arm around Arthur to steady him, then uses his free hand to deftly undo the front buttons of Arthur’s trousers. He palms Arthur through the thin fabric of his underclothes, blood rushing south when he feels how hard Arthur is. 

“Is this alright?” Charles asks. 

“More than,” Arthur says, panting slightly. His lips shine, wet and plush, in the moonlight, and Charles kisses him again as he starts to unbutton Arthur’s union suit. 

Arthur groans against his lips when Charles finally gets a hand around him. His cock is hot and heavy, precome pearling at the tip. Charles swipes his thumb over the head, smearing the fluid in slow and sensual circles.

“You’re teasin’ me,” Arthur complains. He bucks his hips into Charles’ hand.

“I’m not trying to. I’m just admiring,” Charles says. Arthur’s dick is  _ pretty _ , flushed red with want, pulsing in his hand. 

“Admiring,” Arthur mutters, mouth parted with want, looking down at Charles playing idly with his cock. 

Charles takes pity on him; he licks his palm, pooling saliva, and wraps his hand around Arthur again, pumping up and down, spreading the slick. Arthur grunts and leans forward, bracing his arms around Charles’ back. The movement rubs his ass against Charles’ erection, and Charles it, squeezing, as he brings his mouth to Arthur’s collarbone. 

He pulls at Arthur’s cock at a torturously slow pace, enjoying the aborted moans and gasps that each stroke elicits, the look of Arthur: squirming in his lap, fully clothed, with only his cock poking obscenely out. It’s not as intense as other encounters Charles has had with men, but it’s more erotic; Arthur is gorgeous, dark eyes and strong jaw, his proportions cut from some storybook hero — Charles thinks Arthur would make a  _ far _ better painting.

“Wait,” Arthur pants, and Charles pauses, “What about you?”

“It’s alright,” Charles says. Given Arthur’s admission of inexperience, Charles was fully prepared to pleasure Arthur without having the favor returned. He likes it, anyway, just  _ giving _ .

But Arthur shakes his head. “I wanna…” He frowns, giving up on words, and reaches for the buttons on Charles’ trousers. His fingers are clumsy with lust, though; Charles relents and nudges his hands aside, undoes them himself. He pulls out his own dick and adjusts their position, so that he can get a hand around both of them. Arthur has been steadily dripping precome, and the mess is enough to coat Charles’ palm properly, ease the glide of his hand around their cocks.

“Shit,” Arthur swears, watching Charles stroke them together.

Charles tightens his grip, squeezing around their hard lengths, and increases the pace. Arthur’s cock is hot and throbbing against his own, flushed and weeping mess. Charles can’t look for too long, doesn’t think he’ll last. He pulls Arthur into a sloppy kiss, nibbles on his lip. 

Arthur comes with a low groan, trembling. Charles kisses him through it, then jolts in surprise when Arthur bats his hand away and starts to jerk Charles off himself, clumsy but enthusiastic. Charles tucks his face into the divet of Arthur’s collarbone and pants, spilling into Arthur’s fist not much later. They stay like that for a moment to catch their breath.

Charles breaks the silence, smiling as he asks, “Was this your plan all along?” 

“Naw, I ain’t that clever.” Arthur climbs out of his lap, tucks his dick away. He carelessly rubs his hands on his paint-stained trousers to clean the mess. Charles makes a face, but does the same — these pants are a lost cause anyway, worn out with blood and dirt.

Arthur shuffles over to his satchel, tossed haphazardly on the kitchen table, and fishes out a few bills. “Thanks for helping today.”

A clear dismissal. Charles isn’t all too surprised; it’s how these encounters tend to end.

“I’d rather not take your money, now,” Charles says wryly. 

“I’m not paying you for,” Arthur gestures between them, “you know.”

Charles slips on his shirt. “It’s fine. All I did was sleep, anyway.”

“...Well, alright.” Arthur walks Charles to the door after he’s dressed. His shoulders are tensed up, and his natural frown has returned, irrepressible. 

“Good night, Mr. Callahan,” Charles says. 

Arthur grunts and opens the door. The change in demeanor is not entirely unexpected. Charles doesn’t take offense. Maybe he’s tired. Maybe he’s thinking about what they did, and hating himself for it. Charles has witnessed that particular turmoil from many men firsthand. 

Charles steps into the hall without another word, prepared to walk away from the other man forever.

“Damn it all,” he hears Arthur mumble, and then, calling out: “Mr. Smith. Would you mind comin’ back tomorrow morning? Still need to do some, uh, finishing touches. On the painting.”

Charles turns slowly to face him. “What time?” 

Arthur falters, hovering in the doorway, like maybe he expected Charles to say no. “Well… seven o’clock too early? I got somewhere to be ‘round noon.”

“Seven is fine. See you then,” says Charles.

He leaves with a slight uptick to his lips. It’s nearly a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> “can i paint you?” is totally an ill-disguised proposition in all contexts, change my mind


End file.
